Barrons' Books&Bubbles
by Serane
Summary: Post-Shadowfever but pre Iced? Somewhere around that line. After Feverborn, I just need something sweet and fluffy. Well... it turned out M, but then it's Mac and Barrons. Mac just wanted a hot, relaxing bath. Barrons had other ideas. Mac POV, rated M for Fever-Themes. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Rereading Shadowfever, it struck me how hard and glum Dublin AWC is. Barrons and Max really deserve some happiness after that, so this is something sweet after the end of SF... or as sweet as Barrons lets me. Moning, this brilliant woman with her gift for writing, owns it all. Lucky woman, to have someone like JZB whispering in her head._

* * *

Stream from the hot water and a divine, sweet smell filled the bathroom on the today fourth floor of BB&B. I sank gratefully into the oldfashioned tub.

Eyes closing, relaxation washed over me. The threat of the Sinsar Dubh was gone. Barrons' son was laid to rest and the world AWC kept spinning as lazily on its axis as if there has never been any apocalypse. Live flowed in a continuous slow moving stream, some people left behind, new people joining. New people who did kept my personal life very busy, if not hectic. Barrons was as driven and purposeful as always in his pursuit of shiny things, even though one would expect him to slow down now that he reached his goal after eons of hunting the dark book. I snorted. As if he was capable of ever slowing down.

Our world has changed irrevocally, new threats, new rules, new order that required new skills, new defense mechanisms. I picked up training with him, keen to learn everything I could and he permitted from his vast knowledge. Barrons was a ruthless teacher, thourough, and at times brutal, but never without reason. I learned which questions to ask and when to just shut up and follow his lead. In turn, he was indulging me now and then. There were still childish spats, and days when chasms ripped open between what mattered to me and what mattered to him. He's not exactly the type to sit down and have a relationship heart-to-heart. I wasn't not even sure what Barrons and me had could be labeled as something so ordinary as a „relationship". It was more like something of a compromise between honoring his need for distance and a bond of silent understanding, being as close and intimate as two minds could get. Days when we were apart and days when he was not letting me out of sight. Or out of bed.

On occasion, Barrons vanished without a word. At first, worry mixed with longing and a sense of dread clawed on my insides, feeling hurt at being left out of his life, feeling acutely the fear of being left behind. Later, understanding dawned on me. Silence was a small price to pay. His men, and that term only applies very losely, only suffered me to live. I suspected it's because of what I did for Barrons' son, or maybe just because of Barrons. He's the alpha of whatever they were.

He always comes back, a soothing reassurance that helped to come to terms with the very strange connection we had. Sometimes, he carried bloody bruises on his body upon his return looking oddly satisfied. Sometimes he returned a seething black mess, barely speaking a word, crackling with murderous energy and dark intent. He then retreated into one of the rooms that were off limits to me. I could deal. I had my own retreat on the upper floors. We were two beasts, respecting our territories. I no longer snoped in his rooms. He very rarely entered mine.

Tonight, one of the others called him to join a meeting at Chesters. He spoke in English, clearly not hiding where he was going and leaving the choice wide open to join him or stay here. I was grateful. I had my objections against this place. And his owner. Especially his owner.

When the air behind the tub suddenly changed, I didn't jerk. Every cell in my body zinged with awareness as if my body was one giant tuning fork. The bathroom, one minute ago filled with sweet scented steam, was now filled with a male, a low current of energy that made the tiny hairs of my neck stand up. My tattoo heated up a little againt the cool brim of the oldfashioned tub. A silent predator is crouched behind my head, the darkest beast in the jungle, saturating every inch of space there. Relaxation was instantly replaced with alertness. I was just relieved I hadn't applied on my bright green face mask yet. There was no sound when he arrived, but my spear was poised at his throat, tiny soap bubbles gliding from the tip.

He still liked to test me. Now sometimes, I even pass.

„Finally heading my advice... will wonders never cease?"

His tone was low and mocking, but with light note of praise. His beautiful strong hands slid over the brim of the tub, crowding me in and he was wearing the dark grey suit, one of his favorites. It must have been a good meeting at Chesters for him to return so quickly. Not that he told me when to expect him back, I just assumed. In my head, I heard what he has to say about assuming.

„Here's my advice to you, _Barrons_ , don't disturb a woman in her bubblebath."

I pressed the tip of the spear the tiniest bit harder to his throat to emphasize my point. He let me. It was an empty threat and we both knew it.

„... or else?" He positively purred, a rumble against the wet hair on my neck, pressing even closer.

There was the choice to losen my hold on the weapon or drawing blood. He licked a path from the shell of my ear to the sensitive part where neck met shoulder and my grip tightened. The stubble on his jaw rasped against my neck, his tongue a cool contrast to my flushed skin. He was pleased about my quick reaction, turned on. I never would have my spear not ready, ever, even though BB&B was well protected. A sharp little bite promised me retribution. We both reveled in this particular game.

He started trailing up and down my neck, a slow drag of lips and teeth, not quite hard enough to stroke the flames, but not quite _nice and sweet_ either. It's my turn to purr. Barrons was a master at whatever he did, but in this, he excelled. In bed, he had the firm upper hand and he never let it go. His intent was clear: drop the spear, and the bath, and focus solely on him.

My petunia I would. Barrons' controlled little world needed a good rattling now and then. I was not jumping to his every whim, especially not since long hot baths were a rare occassion nowadays. Quick showers, or, if he joined me, not so quick ones -not that those weren't pleasureable-, weren't exactly relaxing.

I planned my sneakattack, trying not to telegraph my intend. I got better at this. Barrons trained me well.

When I dropped the spear, he relaxed minutely into a smirk against my skin, thinking that he won. I turned around as fast as possible splashing him squarely in the face with strawberry scented, quite bubbly bathwater. For a moment there, he was not moving one muscle, still as a statue. A very wet statue covered in bubbles. Soapy water dripped down his hair, his face, his suit. Trying to suppress a laugh, the look on Barrons usually hard stoic face, a lightning fast mix of indignation, anger and surprise, proved too much. Giggles erupted form my chest and then he was on me, attacking me mercilessly, and when he was finally done with me, the remaining water in the tub was cooled down, the bathroom is positively flooded and I ruined another one of his expensive suits. It became a hobby of mine, a highly entertaining one. He complained, but secretly, he reveled in this game, too.

Fingertips trailed softly, almost reverently over my skin. While I still felt flushed, the bathroom had cooled consideratly, teasing my naked skin into goosebumps. His hands stopped and then he got up so suddenly from the tub that he startled me out of my boneless stupor and what little remained in the tub splashed everywhere. Then I was thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, my naked butt high in the air. I screeched and laughed and tried to pinch his magnificient butt in retaliation but his skin was far too slippery and he laughed as well and growled playfully something about behaving and teaching manners and then suddenly smacked the wet skin on my butt, hard. I howled... that _stung_. But his mouth was on me in an instant, carressing and soothing the imprints of his fingers that must surely glow bright red. His tongue was long, longer and rougher than usual and I got goosebumps of another kind from licks over oversensitized skin. His beast was playful tonight. I was in for a treat.

Excitement spiked through me, a darker lust when heard him sample the air and it was such a primal sound that I could not help but moan. Then we were on the stairs, in the study, through the glass in a matter of seconds. Someone didn't even care that we were dripping strawberry smelling bathwater all over his precious rugs. I couldn't wait to tease him about that tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Later, he is on top of me, with my hands immobilized over my head and my legs trapped under him. He demands submission, moving too slowly, too shallowly, working my body in the most delicious way. I squeeze him in answer, hard, demanding, and am rewarded with a darkening of his skin. The beast is close to the surface tonight, and I answer his call. He watches me through not quite dark, not quite red eyes and when I squeeze him again, he drops his head in my neck, panting, not quite giving up yet. I got better at this special game too. I had a lot of practice.

We're having a wordless conversation, but this time, not the civilized kind through our eyes, but a bestial one through pants and growls and moans.

His don't say „you better submit woman or I'll punish you all night long"

and mine don't say „just bring it on"

and his growl doesn't warn „don't bait the beast little girl"

and my answering moan doesn't proclaim that I left the realms of little girls long ago.

I am no little girl. I am an animal too.

When I train with him, he asks me over and over who I am, a tough, deep question. The longer I learn, the more complex it gets.

Here in bed, his question is different, simpler. What are you?

He's sliding slowly in and out, torturing me with his dick so deep inside me that anything other than his tight, controlled movements would hurt. I try to rise my hips to his, seeking the friction to get off, but it's like being trapped under a rock. I can't move an inch.

What are you?

His nibbling on my neck teases me to give up, and quite frankly, I'm about ready to do so. I try to squeeze my internal muscles to encourage him to go faster, but he just pinches my nipples in retaliation.

What are you?

It's torture, but of the sweetest kind. When he attacks my neck, I can't help but howl.

I'm his, his to play with, to torture, to dominate. His in any sense of the word. He is my world.

He hears the answer he was looking for in my feral noises. The beast is pleased with me.

The next morning, I wince when I I get up and try to walk, and the daisy eating grin on Barrons face all male pride and testosteron. He lies relaxed in the middle of the giant bed, arms crossed leisurely behind his head and looks at me like he had his cake and ate it too. In fact, he did. Several times.

His eyes correct me mockingly, telling me that he's the lion, I the gazelle.

I throw a wet towel at him while I hobble to the shower, but his lightning quick reflexes he catches it in time. Of course. His grin says „nice try" and I grumble.

Hot water pounding down on me loosens my tight muscles while I stand under the spray. I sigh... what I would give for a hot bath to soak in right now. Then the air behind me satures, and the shower is cramped full with masculine presence. He's crowding me in. Without turning around, I close my eyes and lean back, luxuriate at the feel of his strong hands massaging my back.

„You know, it's a pitty you don't have a bathtub down here."

„And why is that, Ms. Lane?"

His voice is light, teasing. Ms. Lane my petunia.

I snort.

„Because... Barrons... it would be pretty convenient not climbing four or five stories up each time I want to take a bath."

„Encourage me."

I perk up. It was meant as just a throwaway comment, not a real suggestion. After all, I can hardly picture him letting plumbers or for that matter, anyone down here in his lair. Once I asked him who built all the rooms underground, but as usual, I got no answer. Barrons's place is well, his. All masculine dark colors and hard materials and practicality, although I discover more and more of my stuff from the upstairs bedroom showing up here. A pink towel one day, stacks of my favorite snacks the next. My collection of nailpolishes turned up neatly lined in his bathroom without a comment. It's hard to guess where our boundaries are sometimes. Barrons is not the talking, much less the explaining kind. If he had it his way, we'd rarely talk at all. I took his hints though and started to move some of my clothes downstairs too. Not all of them. Having your own room still has its perks, especially with a connected bathroom not only decorated to my taste, with a tub too.

But Barrons dangling this treat before my eyes must mean he's in a very good mood.

I send him a mental, graphic reminder of last night, reminding him of the possibilities. Something rattles in his throat.

„Ah my dear Ms. Lane... you learn. Consider myself thouroughly encouraged."

And low and behold, after two weeks a giant tub suddenly graces his bathroom, sleek, modern and utterly ridiculous with tons of gleaming high tec appliances. Of course, Barrons doesn't do things half-assed. It has to be the biggest, baddest tub possible. I briefly wonder who installed it. A thought of Barrons on his knees doing tile work cracks me up, but he'd never tell me how he managed to get it done.

He's leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed casually over his chest, acting all non-challant while watching me fondling all the knobs and levers excitedly. There's even a row of bathsalts lined up on shelf above. I study them, all herbal and spicy. No strawberry for me, but I'm hardly complaining. It means he plans on joining me.

„Happy Ms. Lane?"

I turn around and beam at him. His face is partly in shadow, watching me intently.

„Thank you... Jericho. Thank you so much for this."

I step up and kiss him lightly. His cool facade doesn't slip, but his arms sneak around my waist and the glittering in his eyes turns a shade warmer. In them, I see a truth he doesn't admit to very often. I am his world, too.


End file.
